The Lightest Step
by Sasoon
Summary: The last survivors of a destroyed kingdom find themselves in an entirely new world, with some vaguely familiar threats. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

There was an old Alteraci proverb that said that the lightest step could leave the greatest print, it was just one of a million old sayings repeated ad nauseum by old women, but as Corun Salvaine stood at his place at the wall, and looked at the few other guards alongside him, he couldn't help but feel that maybe it might hold a bit of truth.

They were all that remained of the once mighty Kingdom of Lordaeron. He had been but a boy when Lordaeron fell. Corun had seen his nation destroyed through their own Prince's betrayal, he had seen his village burn and his people slaughtered, he had seen the need to take up the sword, joining the resistance that fought against death itself, and he had seen death win.

Farm after farm, village after village, stronghold after stronghold, they had been pushed back to the edges of their kingdom. Hearthglen and Mardenholde, Sollidens and the Monastery, the Crusaders Square, Tyr's Hand and the Enclave, as well as a few scattered camps and outposts in the Tirisfal Glades and Plaguelands.

Many of their heroes had fallen. Ashbringer was lost. Even still, they had been determined. They had strong men and women, almost every living human north of Strahnbrad united in Scarlet. They had righteous Lordaeronian paladins, powerful Dalaranian mages, swaggering Tirasian sailors, crafty Alteraci rogues, ingenious Gilnean engineers, brave Stormwind knights and stout Stromic warriors.

Men and women from every kingdom. It had seemed like all of humanity was at arms, rumours constantly flew that soon, _soon_ the Alliance would come for them. Volunteers would arrive by foot or boat all the time, sent by Scarlet recruiters.

For years they had defended their strongholds from the dead. They had even made some progress, expanding their holdings and fortifying the western glades, destroying hordes of the enemy.

As time went on though, the flood of volunteers had turned to a trickle, and then dried up completely. Nobody spoke of Alliance armies just over the horizon coming to liberate them. They were betrayed, their allies to the south never did arrive in force to aid them, instead small groups of adventurers would arrive and attack the Crusade, seeking to take for themselves what was left of the Lordaeronian treasury.

And the Crusade had splintered. Raymond George and Maxwell Tyrosus, two of their greatest Paladins had led a group away, claiming the Crusade had been corrupted. And as much as it pained Corun to admit it, they had been right. Many had been driven mad by their experiences, many had turned to dark magic, consorting with demons and death.

Grand Inquisitor Isilien had murdered Taelan Fordring, sending his father into the hands of the Argent Dawn. Tirion Fording led a bloody war against the Crusade, and it was a war in which the only winner was the dead. Hearthglen, Mardenholde and Northridge had been sacked, every crusader captured was put to the sword by the vengeful Highlord. Only a handful had escaped, fleeing through the mountains to the safety of the monastery.

The Enclave had been destroyed as well, ravaged by the Traitor King himself and his army of the dead. The last true sanctuary, the last peaceful, green section of Lordaeron had been annihilated. The farmers and miners of Havenshire, the townspeople of New Avalon, the sailors at Light's Point and King's Harbour, they were all dead, and not all were lucky enough to lie still.

Tyr's Hand had held out in the end, and the Lich King was defeated by the Argent bastards in the Plaguelands, but the bulk of the surviving Crusade had attempted to storm Northrend once again, and once again they had met with ruin. A single ship had limped back to Lordaeron, grounding itself on the Whispering Shore, it's passengers and crew desperate and half-starved seeking refuge at the Pallisade.

As the war against the dead continued, the Great Corrupter revealed himself. Grand Crusader Saidan Dathrohan had been possessed by the Dreadlord Balnazzar all along, and the dread beast's fel powers were used to turn the proud crusaders into undead slaves. A few haunted looking, ragged survivors had made it to the Glades, all of them terrified at what they had seen.

The purest hearted priests and most powerful paladins had not been spared. In a single night, most of the living men and women of Lordaeron were replaced by shuffling corpses, who mindlessly fell upon their comrades lucky enough to escape the curse. It was a massacre.

Moral had crumbled over the years as the Crusade had been ruined, piece by piece. None knew why they had been saved from the same fate as the others, but through the iron hand of Inquisitor Whitemane and her captains the forces had done their duty.

From Solliden's farmstead in the west and the four scattered towers, to the Monastery itself, the Scarlet Crusaders of the Tirisfal Glades had tried. Tried in vain. Their numbers were lower than ever, their warriors often but scared children with rusted blades, their leaders were mostly dead, and they had no hope of victory.

But they had tried.

It took the dead years more to crush the last of them. The outposts had seen great and valiant deeds, brave men and women fighting side by side, until they were forced to fight back to back, and finally one against a horde. The names of the last heroes were known only to the light.

After the outposts had fallen, they had all expected Solliden's and the Pallisade to be the next to go. They had not expected the vile enemy to penetrate the monastery itself and assassinate their leaders and massacre the soldiers. Those that escaped swore that they had seen human faces among the mercenary foes, lead by a shadowy dead woman.

Solliden's farmstead, actually a cluster of farms surrounding a tiny hamlet, and the Pallisade the farmers and crusaders took shelter in when raided by the enemy, had been the last bastions of the Crusade.

The last banner had flown from the Pallisade's walls. The once proud, blue, noble L, for Lordaeron had long since been changed to a bright scarlet to symbolise the blood of the living. For so long as there was a living human in Lordaeron, the fight would continue. The banner was old, dirty and torn, the Pallisade's walls were uneven and hastily thrown together, it's defenders were the survivors of seven kingdoms and the veterans of dozens of battlefields.

It was there that they had started to come up with their plan. Among the surviving crusaders were two mages, Dalaranians who had picked up a bit of arcane knowledge in their past lives, and the daughter of the local peasant leader who had shown some promise in the area. Before the Crusade had really begun to disintegrate rumours had reached them of a place known as the Caverns of Time, far away in mythical Kalimdor, where supposedly adventurers were able to travel to ages past.

After the defeat of a small band of undead adventurers who had tried to finish them off at the Pallisade, they had been shocked to find a number of spellbooks and other tomes on one of the corpses. The dead's journal had described it's adventures to the caverns in great detail, and it had even visited Lordaeron before the Scourge!

In parts of the journal, strange writings and diagrams beyond Corun's ken had been scrawled that had set a flame of excitement under the Crusade's last surviving mages, a Dalaranian wizard named Meryn Lobos lead the trio, and his accomplices were a woman battlemage from the same city named Thea Peronne, and the more recent apprentice Erin Solliden.

They had been excused from all duties, and devoted all their waking hours to solving the puzzle of time travel. Thank the Light, the dead had taken to merely toying with the Crusaders and penning them in to the area, Corun hadn't known why they hadn't sent more than a few token attacks against them in recent months, but he had been grateful.

* * *

Sir Castred Wicken was older than any of the other surviving crusaders by many years, he had been a soldier in the first wars against the orcs so long ago. He had commanded squadrons of heavily armed and overly polished knights, he had marched in the triumph as Stormwind was liberated from the Horde, and he had gone home to his village expecting to live a nice quiet life.

Several decades, and wars, later he was the commander of barely more than a platoon of starved, traumatised fanatics, less than two dozen initiates, all of them the sons and daughters of Solliden's farmers who were old enough to hold a weapon, and a few dozen civilians, many of them too young or too old to fight, and the rest just half-trained and ill-equipped skirmishers.

For weeks now, the few of his men and women blessed with arcane knowledge had been attempting to discover the secrets of time travel. They had decided to return to Lordaeron's past, in order to save it's future. Some had wanted to go back only a few years to the start of the Crusade, and warn the leaders of Dathrohan's corruption and Isilien's madness, others wanted to go back further and save the Ashbringer. Yet more argued that they could return to a time before the Traitor Prince's treachery, and save Lordaeron from destruction; or that they could go to the distant past and simply live in peace.

Where Lordaeron had fallen and the Crusade had failed, they, if their plan was successful, had a hope of changing everything. With the recent death of one of the more elderly civilians, they were down to just 128 in all. It was a tragic number. Lordaeron before the fall had a population in the millions.

Though it was many years ago now since he took them, he had not yet forgotten the vows he had taken when he joined the Knights of the Silver Hand. He had 127 men, women and children under his protection, and he would protect them with his life if it came to it.

They had elected to return to the year before the start of the First War, so that the Seven Kingdoms could be warned of the impending danger and prepare a stronger defense. If the orcs were never allowed to get beyond their damned portal, none of what had happened would come to pass, Prince Arthas would never be corrupted, the human kingdoms would survive, and the world would be peaceful.

Sir Castred personally thought that the plan was a bit optimistic, but he prayed that it worked. He had done a lot of praying in his life, and he was often interrupted. Yesterday Meryn Lobos and his two apprentices had burst into the small chapel in Solliden's hamlet where the Crusaders who still had any faith made use of it.

_"We've got it! By the Light we did it!"_ Meryn was a middle aged man, unhealthily thin and pale like the rest of them, and wearing ragged maroon robes. His usually dead looking brown eyes were alive with excitement "_We figured it_ out!"

Now, only one day later, the plan was to be put into action. He hadn't understood a word the damned wizards said about the ritual, but Meryn was sure it would work. When the farmers' work was done for the day and everyone had gathered in the Pallisade with all their tools and supplies (apparently the ritual had a limited effect radius), the old knight looked at the remnants of a proud kingdom and felt his own voice coming before he heard it.

_"Brothers, sisters; humans... We have been in the darkness for so long, but now thanks to Meryn, Thea and Erin over there, a ray of Light shines down upon us lighting a pathway none ever thought open..."_ somehow, after years of suffering, after seeing their friends and families turned into soulless monsters and destroying everything they had once known, after being forced to flee in ever shrinking bands from one stronghold to another as devastation followed them, the survivors of Lordaeron looked at him with a slight spark in their eyes.

_"Most of you... nearly all of you, have never known the world as it was before the First War. It was peaceful then, the land was green and beautiful, and it's people were alive and well. There were no wars, there was no Horde, there was no Scourge, there were no demons"_ a wistful look had appeared on the face of Solliden, one of the only others old enough to remember the good times.

_"But now you will get a chance to experience things as they once were. Through the Light all things are possible."_ he nodded to Meryn and the man began the ritual. It looked simple enough, scratching some lines in the ground and saying the right combination of unintelligible gibberish syllables, then with a final exclamation a bright light began to pour from the lines drawn in the dirt.

The light turned into a sort of bubble, which spread, and within seconds had grown to cover the entire Pallisade. Was it working? They could see everything else in the bubble, albeit with a slight blue tint, but view of the outside world was blocked by pure arcane energy that made Sir Castred and the other holy magic users twitch nervously.

It was probably only minutes, but felt like hours that they all stood there in the bubble, nobody daring to move or speak. One of the veteran warriors, Saryl Waud's face was going as blue as the bubble as the man held his breath. Finally the bubble seemed to burst and collapse in on itself, and Sir Castred chuckled as he heard Saryl and several others begin to suck in as much air as they could.

As soon as the bubble was gone and their field of vision was opened once more, Sir Castred looked at the sky in wonder. It was a bright, light blue, free from the tainted black clouds that had hung over Lordaeron for so long... Free from any clouds at all. The air was a bit crisp, and a gust of wind blew a chill onto the gathered humans.

"_It worked!_" someone shouted, and the Crusaders began to cheer. They had escaped death. They were finally safe. Sir Castred joined them with a hurrah. He wondered if there was another, much younger version of himself running around in the South right now.

* * *

Executor Bile Yarran almost wished that he could still feel his rotten face, he was sure he was smiling at the news that one of his underlings had just brought in. The last blot on the map of the Tirisfal Glades had just willingly removed itself, with no loss of Horde troops in the process!

Oh he was definitely going to get promoted for this.

If he ever saw that Blood Elf warlock that had forged those notes about a _"time_ _travel_" spell for him again, he would make sure to buy the breather a year's supply of good Elvish wines. The death of the Forsaken that he had volunteered to take the journal to the Red Bastards had been a sacrifice that Bile was very much prepared to make.

Those damned green farms that Solliden had defended for years would go black and rot at last, and the Pallisade that had now disappeared in it's entirety along with it's defenders would not hinder them at all.

He laughed again at the ease of it. To think, all that it took to get rid of the last of the breathing bastards who had defied the Forsaken for so long was to trick them with an obscure teleportation ritual.


	2. Chapter 2

Maester Alyn had, truth be told, just been going about the motions for most of the day, not really paying attention to the endless sea of parchments, scrolls and books that lower ranked Maesters and initiates had brought to him for checking. It was a dull life at the Citadel, surrounded entirely by scholars and being bound to celibacy, some days he wished he had never taken his vows and followed his brother to Essos to join the Golden Company.

It was because of this weekly fugue of boredom and regret that it took him a few minutes to realise that there was an initiate standing in front of him looking odd. A moment later he recognised the lad.

"_Shouldn't you be lighting the Glass Candles right now, Oswyn? Don't tell me you've given up already?_"

Alyn laughed to himself as he remembered his own attempt at lighting the candles with a single drop of wildfire, that had been disastrous. He loved hearing about the various creative ways the new Maesters-to-be attempted to do the impossible. Magic was long gone from this land, along with the dragons, but man's idiocy would never disappear until he did.

"_I thought... You said I was only supposed to stay until they were lit?" _the damn fool boy was from some damn no-name village in the Vale, and by the look on his long, pale face he actually thought he had succeeded in lighting the candles. He wouldn't be the first to have started imagining things in the darkness.

With a sudden surge of energy, Maester Alyn decided that he would have some fun with the lad, who had until now been a promising student. "_Of course, let's go and see the candles then shall we? What did you use to light them?"_

_"__I didn't think it would work..."_ the boy grimaced as he followed the older Maester, "_It didn't work, I could swear the little flame I started blinked out within seconds, but after a while it just, sort of, lit? I'm sure by itself."_

Lit by itself indeed, hah! Soon the two of them were in a corridor leading to the vault where the three Black Candles were stored. Alyn looked at the young man again and started to give the final lesson a Maester learnt before taking his vows "_Now, Oswyn, you must know that magic is long dead. The point of this lesson was not really for you to light these candles, that's impossible. The point was for you to learn that even after all your training here, some things are out of your powers."_

"_Do you understand, Oswyn?"_ Alyn patted the initiate on the back, but instead of responding the Valeman simply stepped forwards and threw open the doors to the vault.

And light came flooding out.

* * *

The joy of thinking their spell had worked, that they were finally safe, hadn't lasted more than an hour. At first the freezing cold winds had been considered unimportant, they had probably travelled back to some long ago winter, and when Sir Castred Wicken lead the gleeful crowd of farmers and crusaders in climbing up to the Pallisade's walls to view their land untainted by the Scourge, they were met with a shock.

The very landscape itself had changed; where before there had been broadly flat, empty farmland with a few hills in the distance, they now found themselves in a large snowy clearing between dense growths of forest that blocked further vision. After the oldest of the civilians, ancient Mantel Tylgham, had confirmed that there hadn't been any forests in the area since well before he was born, there had been a very sudden drop in the mood of the humans.

According to old Mantel, the last of the forests had been cleared generations before his time, and there had never been snow cover so thick in any of the winters of his youth. The wizard, Meryn Lobos, still in the courtyard, was just as surprised as anyone else, and was frantically looking back and forth between the remnants of the ritual laying on the ground and the notes in the found journal.

A few of the children began to cry, and Sir Castred was wracking his mind, had they travelled too far into the past? Had they perhaps travelled into _the future_, to some year by when nature had long reclaimed the farmlands? Had they been transported to some unintended point in time due to an accident in the ritual's casting? Seeing the crestfallen looks on the faces of those surrounding him, Sir Castred knew what he had to do.

_"Crusaders, back to the courtyard!"_

Most of Solliden's farmers were left looking out over the walls at where their homes had just been, but the fighters followed his command and assembled back in the centre of the Pallisade. It was an open square surrounded by the walls and towers, and by a few small guardhouses, the armoury, and the shelters where the farmers slept.

The Pallisade wasn't a grand keep like Mardenholde. It's walls weren't as high or as strong as Tyr's Hand's had been, and it's basic comforts made even the Monastery seem comfortable, but it was all they had.

Once the last of the warriors had joined them, Sir Castred began to speak. "_My friends, our spell has worked. I know the terrain outside was a bit of a shock, but I saw no shadowy Horde forces in the distance penning us in, and I saw no sign of taint or corruption on the land around us. I don't know about you lot, but that to me is a sign that the Light has blessed us with success this day."_

A few of them nodded or looked as if they agreed, but there was no cheer. "_We may be in the distant past, maybe even the future. Maybe the spell worked perfectly and old Mantel is just misremembering what the land looked like before the Wars. There's only one way we can know for sure, and that's to go and find out."_

_"The old road we knew appears to be gone, or covered by snow, but we still know it's direction. By the Light, we have found ourselves away from the enemy, and now we are free to move with impunity. Will any volunteers for the first reconnaissance party step forwards now please."_

It took a few seconds, but finally a half dozen or so of them stepped forwards. They were lightly armoured hunters armed with bows, as well as a couple of sword-wielding warriors. They didn't need a Paladin scouting with them, bumping into things, cracking every twig he stepped on and stomping around in his heavier armour.

Sir Castred nodded at the group, one of the warriors was Corun Salvaine, a young but experienced fighter. He would lead the party. Castred stepped closer to the younger man and gave his orders "_Take the party north, to the Whispering Shore. The Murlocs didn't dare to invade the area until long after the might of Lordaeron was scattered. If we are in the past, the shore should be empty."_

Corun nodded, and Sir Catred continued. "_Watch the woods, they shouldn't be here at all. Make note of everything you see, and return safely. Good luck and Light bless you."_

The younger warrior and his group left a few minutes later, after begging a warming spell off of the mage. Actually, that wasn't such a bad idea.

* * *

Corun wasn't sure what had happened after the mage had attempted his ritual, but apparently something had gone wrong. This was not the Tirisfal Glades that they knew, and he had a suspicion that it might not any other form of the Tirisfal Glades either. He had never trusted the arcane entirely, perhaps some fel entity had twisted the ritual and sent them off to another place or plane entirely.

Either way, they would find out.

With him were Tol Waltis, Uric Pirrot, Egmont Matad, Efrem Dorran and Lariot Borst. They were all men, all Lordaeronians except for the Alteraci Borst and Stromic Pirrot, and all veterans despite their young ages. Wearing dyed-red leathers and rusted chainmail that had probably been originally crafted before he was born, Corun was armed with a light, single handed sword and shield.

Waltis was also a warrior, with similar armour and a two handed longsword as his weapon of choice. The others were all hunters, wielding bows and wearing even lighter armour, just leathers and furs that gave them great mobility, though not so much protection. The great unifier of the Crusader's uniforms was the tabards.

The sigil of the Scarlet Crusade was a flame, and they all wore it with pride and reverence. So many good men and women had died fighting for that flame, and so long as red blood pumped through human veins the flame would continue to burn.

Corun and Uric took the lead of the group, keeping their eyes ahead as they left the Pallisade and into the snows, with Egmont and Efrem behind them and Tol and Lariot in the rear. Waving goodbye to the farmers and young initiates still watching from the walls, they made their way to where the road should have been.

Quickly clearing snow away from one spot, it was apparent that whenever or wherever they were, the road was just as gone as Solliden's farms. Uric grumbled something to himself at that revelation, but as Sir Castred had said, they knew the way. Straight North, to the Whispering Shore.

Walking slower than usual through the snow, but thanking the Light that it was only a few inches deep and not like the great snowfields of the Alterac Mountains, the group pressed forwards.

The clearing that the Pallisade found itself in was not too large, and they were soon entering the forest. The trees were large, and the growth was dense, but it was easy to make their way through the woods, stepping over roots and ducking under branches.

Corun just followed Uric, confident that the veteran tracker wouldn't lead them in circles, and it seemed to work, he didn't notice seeing any of the same trees more than once. What he did notice was how alive the forest seemed.

The leaves on the trees were _green!_ So was the grass that sat between clumps of snow wherever the trees gave it shelter, and they could hear the tweeting of birds in the trees. It was a living forest, full of living plants and living animals; something none of them had seen for a very long time.

When they saw a deer in the distance, Uric stopped and stared at the thing with awe, and maybe a bit of hunger. They hadn't eaten anything but Solliden's crops since the Monastery had fallen and supplies stopped reaching their outpost. The desire for meat seemed to be winning the hunter over, so Corun whispered to him "_On the way back we can_ _hunt_" and the group moved on.

There was a lot of wildlife in these woods, many small rodents, deer and even moose, the party had stopped in their tracks and found a much longer way around a great black bear that had sat in a clearing, and the howling of wolves could be heard in the distance. A hunter could make a killing here, from meat and fur, and a woodsman would be able to make a hundred lumber camps that would all put Northridge to shame.

It was a powerful experience to be in a land not plagued by the Scourge. The fresh air and sounds of the forest made the hours go quick for Corun and his party.

Eventually they found themselves coming out of the woods. Ahead of them was an empty plateau ending in steep cliffs, and the sound of the waves crashing into the shore could be heard even this high up.

They rushed forwards and looked over the edge. Below was a long, rocky black beach. Corun had visited the Whispering Shore once before. This was not it. That had been a gentle, rolling landscape once beautiful and now tragically corrupted, with a rather short beach and very small hills behind it.

_"Where the Fel are we?"_

* * *

It had been a good day for Chief Eiruk of the Yeolings. Life was usually harsh in the lands beyond the wall, but for this clan things were going well. Ever since moving into the ruins of Hardhome a few years earlier, they had been left alone by the more savage bands of cannibals that lurked in the forests.

The reputation of Hardhome had kept everyone away for so many years, but after they had been forced from their old village, the Yeolings found that the ancient town was not haunted at all. It was a paradise right on the rocky shore, nestled between high, defensible cliffs and a harbour full of more fish than any man could ever need.

Where before, living in the dense forests they had been scrawny, living off of what their hunters had managed to find and bring back to the village, they now had an easy and safe way of getting food with no competition from other tribes. The forest was not far off, ending near the cliffs, so there was still plenty of wood for them to burn or build with and plenty of furs to wear.

Things had been good. And today was especially good. His wife Torun had announced that she was with child! The clan had celebrated with what passed for a feast this far north, his cousins Valmar and Fuldir bringing in twice as much fish as usual, and his kinsman Jarki proudly dragged a fresh elk down the steep path to the village on his sled.

After the feast, the clan had sacrificed a goat to the Old Gods and prayed for their continued blessings. Eiruk had also prayed that his wife would be healthy during her childbearing, and that the child should be strong and brave, like any good Free Folk should be.

Raising himself from prayer, Eiruk looked to his cousins and laughed heartily, "_The three of us are on our way to breeding an army!"_, since coming to Hardhome he had been blessed with twin daughters, and at least a dozen other children had been born to his kinsmen.

"_Aye!"_ Fuldir nodded his head, black beard following after him, "_Rattleshirt be damned, the Yeolings live and one day there'll be enough of us to get revenge on that fucker."_

They had passed the next few hours peacefully, or as peacefully as wildlings passed any time, fighting and drinking joyfully. By the time Jarki had run in half dressed waving his axe around and shouting something, Eiruk and the others were hammered.

"_What the fuck do you want Jarki?"_ Eiruk shouted back while wrestling with another of his kinsmen.

"_THERE'S FUCKING KNEELERS COMING DOWN THE CLIFFS RIGHT NOW"_ that immediately sobered everyone up, and the assorted wildlings ran out to grab their weapons. Eiruk's face was split by a broad grin; the gods really were blessing him today, not just with a son, and a feast, but also with a battle!

"_How many?"_

_"__Only a handful, looks like a scouting party."_ Jarki followed his chief as the man attempted to find his sword. Eiruk was the only Yeoling to own a sword. It had been taken off some dead Crow who knows how long ago, and been the property of the clan's chief ever since, with the rest of them wielding more usual wildling weapons like axes or spears.

_"They Crows?"_

"_Don't look like any Crows I've ever seen, fuckers are wearing red._" Jarki grinned at the absurdity, "_Reckon some kneeler lord's sent his army up to try win some glory?"_

_"Could be..."_ Eiruk finally found where he had hidden his sword and stumbled out of the hut and into the village, where his clan's warriors were assembled.

Unlike the kneelers south of the wall, Northern women fought alongside their men, and he grinned at his wife as he took his place beside her. The Yeoling clan hadn't fought a true battle since Rattleshirt's surprise raid on their village and their subsequent coming to Hardhome, but they were ready. As soon as the kneelers got close, Eiruk would lead the charge.

After a few minutes, the red kneelers became visible as they got off the winding path down the cliffs and onto the beach itself. He patted Jarki on the back, as if the man had personally delivered him this battle. This was a good day.

Once they got closer and saw the assembled wildlings, the kneelers stopped and stared at the warriors in wonder. Taking the opportunity to get in some good old-fashioned taunting, Eiruk shouted at the hungry looking men he saw in odd armour and weird little dresses with paintings of flame on them.

Like many wildlings, the Yeolings knew something of the new speech spoken by those living south of the wall. Eiruk didn't know how they knew it, probably it was from deserting Crows, but in the end that didn't matter.

_"WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE, KNEELERS!?"_ he shouted in the New Tongue, and the red bastards had the audacity to look confused. They then began approaching the village and Eiruk shouted again "_HAVE YOU COME TO DIE!?"_

He was just about to charge at the kneelers when the man at the front, a younger blond fellow, beardless like a woman, spoke.

It wasn't really that unusual that a kneeler would know how to speak. What was strange was that the man had spoken in fluent, if oddly accented Old Tongue. "_Hail friend, do you speak common?"_ the man had asked, before quickly following up with "_Where is this place? This is not the Whispering Shore."_

Eiruk managed to restrain himself from attacking the stranger, and he looked at the man as if he was an idiot. Even the Crows knew of Hardhome. His clansmen looked to him for leadership, and Eiruk eyed the red bastards again. There was only one group of men he knew who wore mails, but also spoke the Old Tongue, and they lived far away, perhaps far enough to not know Hardhome or it's history.

_"You're a long way from home, Thenn. Explain yourself or face the Yeolings!"_

* * *

**Authors note: **Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter, reviewed, followed, favourited..., this is my first attempt writing a fanfiction, but I didn't really expect anyone to actually want to read it.


	3. Chapter 3

Meryn Lobos had started life in the gutters of Dalaran, son of one of the countless thousands of non-magic citizens of that Kingdom that toiled away at the behest of their masters, his mother had worked at an Inn, and he had never known his father.

His early years had been a tale of barely getting by, eating the leftover scraps that the inn's patrons left and stealing from the city's wealthier inhabitants and trying not to get caught. His fate had changed one day after he attempted to burgle the wrong home, and found himself face to face with a powerful mage.

The man had sensed something in him, and agreed not to turn him over to the city guards if Meryn would become his apprentice. It had been a dream come true; every non-magic Dalaranian had a slight fantasy about one day discovering their powers and donning the robes of a wizard.

He owed everything to that mage. Tallan Vaskoff had come from a peasant family in a tiny hamlet on the shores of Darrowmere, but that hadn't stopped him. A life of adventuring and acquiring knowledge, gaining wealth and reputation in the process; it had made him a powerful man.

Meryn's mother had been only too happy to have him off living with some wizard, it was one less mouth to feed. He sometimes wondered what happened to his mother and siblings, he had never seen them again, spending all of his time learning the arcane arts that had been handed down to humanity in aeons past by the High Elves.

He had loved his time with the mage, he still remembered the rush of elation he had whenever he had mastered a new spell, or finally wrapped his head around some arcane riddle. Every minor outing to collect some herb or ingredient needed in one of Vaskoff's potions had seemed like a grand adventure to him at the time.

He had become a man a few years before the Third War, and had proudly accompanied his master to the front with the Dalaranian contingent in the fight against the undead and their demonic masters.

And then that bastard Arthas... While Dalaran hadn't been immediately affected by the fall of Lordaeron, the fallout had reached their nation soon enough, and the armies of the dead had ravaged the countryside. His teacher had been killed by a deathlord while defending the Silverpine Forest. Only the capital city of Dalaran was safe, the immense power of it's mages easily turning back any of the enemy's attacks.

But they had never pressed the offensive. The all powerful mage-lords of Dalaran had just left their people to die. They had even placed an impenetrable magical barrier around the centre city, trapping many thousands of their citizens, mages and soldiers, outside and alone with the dead at their backs.

He had been one of those mages, trapped outside the dome with the dead getting more powerful all the time. He had been one of the many to rush north, to where the living fought still in Lordaeron. Tens of thousands of men were fighting a Crusade against death itself; at the time they were mainly the remnants of the Lordaeronian and Alliance forces that had been stationed in the area, but a swell of volunteers came as the dead destroyed town after town.

Look where they were now. All that remained of the Crusade, and of humanity itself north of the Thandol Span was a group of barely one hundred men, women and children, freezing in the cold after a spell that had promised salvation had delivered them...

Well he didn't know what the spell had done really. Meryn and the only other two present with any degree of arcane knowledge had been trying to figure out what had gone wrong with the ritual for hours now, with Sir Castred and the other Crusaders occasionally stopping what they were doing to glare at the trio of magic users; himself, the Dalaranian battle-mage Thea Peronne, who was really more of a warrior than a wizard; and the young apprentice Erin Solliden, who only knew what Meryn knew, and not even all of that.

The most confusing thing was that they _had_ done everything correctly, as far as they could tell. The spell hadn't failed and killed all of them, or drained all the life out of anyone, or summoned any fel entities, and they had obviously been transported somewhere or somewhen other than where they had started off. Nothing had been disturbed inside the Pallisade, and nobody had appeared with half their body missing, accidentally killed by the short radius of the spell...

But where where they, and why?

_"I don't get it. I just..."_ he mumbled to himself, the other two had given up and were now sitting on the ground, looking defeated as he paced around the square, before having a sudden realisation. "_Oh Light, what have we done!"_

"_What?_" the typically blunt battle-mage asked. She was a strong, stout woman with dark hair and permanently tanned skin that contrasted to the overwhelming paleness of the Crusaders who had lived in a dark and corrupted world for so long.

He didn't answer, but motioned for the others to follow him, and the three hurried over to where Sir Castred, leader of the Crusaders was speaking to Tom Solliden, the leader of the farmers. Tom was the brother of Erin, and their father had been the one to unite the peasants of the area after the Scourge had attacked; leading the defence and securing one pocket of life in a dead kingdom.

The senior Solliden had been murdered by adventurers years ago now.

"_I know what happened with the ritual!"_ Meryn blurted out as soon as he was close enough to the pair. The old Crusader turned and looked at the wizard, his light blue eyes boring into Meryn's own brown. "_The ritual, I think I know what happened!"_

"_**THE SCOUTS ARE RETURNING, AND THEY HAVE COMPANY!" **_one of the guards on lookout duty on the walls shouted down. "_**THEY HAVE MEN WITH THEM, LIVING MEN!"**_

_"Your explanation will have to wait Meryn."_ Sir Castred immediately formed up a group of Crusaders into a bodyguard and left the Pallisade to meet the approaching party, leaving the farmer and the three wizards behind.

* * *

It had been a strange day for Chief Eiruk of the Yeolings. After finding out he was to be a father yet again, and celebrating this fact with a feast and some fun with his kinsmen, a party of what he at first thought were kneelers had appeared, wearing strange red armour and carrying well-made weaponry.

He had been about to charge at the men, thanking the god of war for providing him yet another blessing on that good day, when one of them spoke in the Old Tongue. He had still wanted to attack them, if any other tribes found out how good they were living at Hardhome then bastards would start flocking there and it would turn just as bad as anywhere else.

He then thought they must have been Thenns, the only people north of the wall to know the secrets of smithing. But the man had simply asked "_what are_ _Thenns_?", imagine that! Everyone knew the Thenns! A conversation had ensued, with the red armoured men claiming to come from a far-away land called Lordaeron (bloody kneelers always did have big heads, imagine naming a whole kingdom after some lord named Aeron!), and that they had been magically transported to wherever they now where, and by the way where was that?

Eiruk had always considered himself to be a smart man, not falling for so many of the superstitions that so many other Free Folk believed in, and so he had obviously found this hard to believe, and loudly and violently disagreed until one of the men had suddenly pulled out a glass bottle full of what looked like blood.

After cutting a gash in his own hand and showing the assembled wildlings the wound, the man had drunk from the bottle and amazingly the wound immediately and completely healed.

That was more than enough to convince Eiruk and the Yeolings that these kneelers, and they must be kneelers since they claimed not to be Thenns, had the blessings of the gods and powerful magics at their command. All hostility had vanished from Eiruk's face and he approached the man who had cut himself to inspect the hand more closely. There wasn't even a scar!

The conversation had then been much friendlier, the leader of the outlanders had introduced himself as Corun Salvaine and Eiruk had followed suit, shaking the man's now bloodless hand happily and inviting him in to the village, where they received a very strange tale that somewhat resembled the Long Night his grandmother had often warned about.

Now, only a couple of hours later, Eiruk, Jarki and Fuldir were accompanying the foreigners through the woods and back to their encampment. Oddly they hadn't understood the word that Corun used to describe the structure, and several other words were twisted, as if their dialect had been influenced by some other language, so when they broke through the last clearing and saw the Pallisade they were shocked.

"_It's a castle! A bloody kneeler castle!"_ Fuldir swore, and Jarki looked confused, _"What the fuck? I was hunting here just this morning and it was an empty field? How did your magic bring this here?"_

"_I have no idea._" the so called "Crusader" (whatever that meant) shrugged and they continued. The magicians must have been very powerful, Eiruk was glad he hadn't attacked the men and brought the gods' wrath down upon his clan.

Before long another group of men in red left the castle and walked up to join them, escorting the group inside. They were all armed and had a familiar hungry, tortured look about them. These men were survivors, they looked more like Free Folk than any of the Crows he had seen before.

"_I am Sir Castred Wicken, and you?"_ the old man at the head of the new group asked, thrusting his metal glove forwards for Eiruk to shake.

"_Eiruk, chief of the Yeoling clan..."_ these red armoured men looked wary of the wildlings, but also curious. "_Why have the gods sent you here?" _the old man laughed, but some of the others suddenly stopped walking, and Eiruk heard a whisper from one of the warrior escorts.

"_He believes in Gods? Is this ancient Arathor?"_

"_I don't know where this bloody Arathor is, or that fancy sounding kingdom your lad told me about, but this is Storrold's Point, and my village is called Hardhome."_ that had sent the outlanders into a furor, and they all started mumbling to each other as the group entered into the castle.

It was an impressive structure for the wildlings; large walls and watchtowers surrounding some sort of strange little village, a handful of wooden buildings with people peeking out at them from inside, as well as above and all around them. There must be a hundred people in the castle, quite a lot for a clan of Free Folk, though there were much stronger tribal confederations and warbands.

The group entered one of the buildings, only the older man, a few of the guards and a strange looking man wearing a purple dress following with them. The leader of the strangers motioned for Eiruk and his kinsmen to sit at one of the benches that were lining a few tables.

"_Tell me everything about this world."_

* * *

As it turned out, the savage didn't really know very much about the world. Corun Salvaine and his small group of scouts had been shocked to see a tribe of what looked like ancient Arathis living in a collection of log huts on the beach. The small village was surrounded by ruins, they looked like old ruins too, piles of timber and debris where once primitive cabins had been.

The shock of it was the only thing that stopped them from instantly attacking the strangers. He had reminded himself that they were now in another time, or place, and whoever these men were, they couldn't be infected with the myriad of Scourge plagues.

They had reacted as he expected a band of bearded savages wearing thick furs and wielding heavy weapons would, shouting in some strange language and threatening violence. Surprisingly, they had understood common, and after showing off what a minor healing potion could do, they had awed the primitives and were invited inside.

He had told the chief of the locals the truth about where or when they had come from, and the man had accepted it with a grim nod, saying that they had escaped the "_others_" by the will of "_the Gods_". That had set the men on edge, these savages were not followers of the Light, but idolisers of the sort that could easily be lead to heresy, demon-worship and necromancy.

But the man's humanity was enough to stop the Crusader party from taking any immediate action against the heathens, and soon they found themselves back at the Pallisade's main guardroom with a few of the tribe's leaders, and their own.

"_Seven kingdoms, you say?_" Sir Castred and the other Azerothians had been briefly excited to hear this, but the chief, Eiruk, had been able to name a few of them. Alterac, Dalaran, Gilneas, Kul'Tiras, Lordaeron, Stormwind and Stromgarde were not among them.

"_And which kingdom is this in? The northern one?"_ the wizard Meryn asked, receiving a furious outburst from the tribesman who insisted very strongly that they were Free Folk in these lands beyond the wall.

"_What wall?"_ Corun chimed in, this got him pitying looks from the three wildlings, and the one named Jarki answered "_The great big bloody ice wall, bloody Crows on top, you don't have them in your_ _world do you, the Crows?_"

After a distracting but amusing conversation about birds of prey, they found out that these Crows were actually men. Warriors that only seemed to exist to cause the Free Folk problems, coming up and attacking them, stealing their resources, stopping their raids, and so forth.

"_Well. It sounds like we've found ourselves in quite an exciting... new world. Meryn, why is that, exactly?"_ one of the women in the room asked, and the wizard jumped up with a wary look on his face.

"_Yes, uh... One of the runes used in the ritual. It was clearly the one that activate the teleportation, but some of it's components were unfamiliar and we weren't sure exactly what they did. I thought that it must have been the key to time travel, but... well you've seen what happened, so it must have done more than that."_

The chief of the wildlings, Eiruk, looked just as confused as most of the Crusaders by that explanation, before blurting out "_You are the magic one? What can you do?"_, his blue eyes shining out from his dirty face and thick black hair and beard. The other one, Jarki, looked in awe as he stared at the robed man, and the third, silent member of the tribe seemed wary.

Meryn looked pleased to shift the conversation away from the ritual, and quickly showed off a couple of basic spells; conjuring a delicious looking cake on the table they were sitting around, and a small blue flame in his hand, which the man juggled for a few seconds before dismissing.

Corun smiled at the display, but the three wildlings looked both terrified and amazed, and started whispering frantically to each other.

Sir Castred cleared his throat, and the attention of those in the room shifted to the older man, "_Chief Eiruk, I have a proposal for you. We are... new to this land, and find ourselves in great need of allies. Would you be interested in some kind of mutual pact?"_

The wide-eyed wildling looked back and forwards a few times between his clansmen, the conjured cake and Sir Castred, before grunting and raising himself up to give a reply "_Aye, you outlanders have the gods on your side. We are Free Folk and we kneel to no man, but from this night until the Long Night, the Yeoling clan will fight by your side, if you will fight by ours."_


	4. Chapter 4

The red priest Thoros of Myr woke with a start in some strange woman's bed, trying to recapture the images he had seen in his dreams. He found it bloody annoying that as soon you were awake you forgot what you had seen. That was especially annoying when your dreams often held important visions or clues of things to come sent by your God, or at least when they might, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Thoros wasn't exactly the best priest, and didn't believe or understand much of what he had been taught. Today the only lingering image from his dream was that of a group of men and woman in red attire, faces obscured, all of them marked by R'hllor's flames, with their backs to a wall and arms at the ready as they stared at _something_ in the distance.

Perhaps it was just a regular old dream, or some misremembered image from his youth at the Red Temple or one of the many adventures that he had been on over the years, like his fighting in the Greyjoy Rebellion, most memorably at the Battle of Pyke. It didn't really matter that he couldn't remember all of the dream, he would simply ask the flames later on in the day if the dream had been important.

Thoros dressed himself, left a coin for the woman, picked up his wine and left the house for the streets of King's Landing. He wondered what Robert was up to, perhaps they would get some sparring in, or even better drinking and sparring, and maybe a bit of bastard-making afterwards.

He loved seeing the nervous looks on the faces of the Kingsguard when he fought with the Baratheon King, especially when the King demanded that he set his sword aflame, and the young Princes and Princess enjoyed that trick as well, though Joffrey seemed to like it a bit much. Though he had become rather fat, King Robert had not yet lost the skills that had won him the throne, and a sparring match was a great way to stay in shape.

Apparently Robert was trying to convince the Small Council to arrange a tourney to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Pyke, which was coming up in only a few months. It was unbelievable that nearly five years had already passed since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, five years since he had been the first man through the breach at Pyke, five years since he had become more than just "_Thoros, that drunken red priest_".

Now he was "_Thoros, that drunken red priest with the flaming sword_". And that was a lovely heroic reputation to have when out drinking and whoring with the King.

Speaking of drinking and whoring with the King, Littlefinger had apparently just opened a new establishment a few days ago, so perhaps he would find himself waking from another odd dream in some strange woman's bed tomorrow.

* * *

The shouting had started as soon as the three savages left the Pallisade and wandered off back to their village. The other Crusaders had enough respect for Sir Castred to wait until the strangers were out of earshot before starting in on him, and soon the tumult spread to the others outside the small mess room they had commandeered.

"_You would have us ally with these unknown savages? For all we know they're in the bloody Cult of the Damned!"_ Garant Haige's Alteraci accent slurred slightly. "_The dark-haired one said something about 'the gods', they could be demon worshippers?"_ came the voice of the scout Lariot Borst.

"_They could be demons themselves! In __the guise of men as with the Grand Crusader!_" Saryl Waud was one of the few survivors of the Plaguelands, and had no wish to see the men and women of the Pallisade end up like those of Tyr's Hand or Stratholme.

"_They seemed nice to me."_ Meryn shrugged and a few of the others looked at him angrily, but the wizard continued. "_I felt no fel magics acting upon them. They are just men."_

"_Aye Meryn, and I could not see the touch of the Lich King on them."_ one of the priests, Torven Peyrick, nodded, and Sir Castred agreed "_I don't know what gods these people worship, perhaps they are like those of our ancestors in old Arathor, before we found the Light."_

"_So they are heathens then!"_ Garant, in his mail and leather armour, took a step closer to the group. He had a mad look in his eye. "_Heathen savages! You can't expect us to trust them, they'll kill us all!"_

_"No better than damn orcs!_"

"_They are men! Men like us. Living men."_ Sir Castred broke back into the argument, and the others turned to him. "_We know nothing of this world, but they do. We don't know who they are, but I know who we are, the Scarlet Crusade! We have arms and we have the Light, if that band of barbarians tries to betray us, we will simply destroy them."_

_"Until then, we will treat them as allies. We have more than one hundred men, women and children within these walls to feed, and we are going to need the local's support to stabilise ourselves here, at least for now."_ a few of the warriors grumbled at that, though others nodded.

"_Solliden and the farmers have no homes to go to, and the barrack rooms will not hold everyone. The scouts say this clan is tiny, maybe a few dozen members, mainly non-fighters. We will establish an outpost at their village in the ruins Corun mentioned, and we will keep watch on the locals to make sure they aren't up to_ anything."

"_What of our long-term plans? In this new world all hopes of saving Lordaeron and the Crusade are useless."_ Tol Waltis asked quietly, yet easily heard in the silence that fell with Sir Castred's speech.

"_I am not sure... We will need to know more about this place, it's peoples and gods, and it's threats before we can plan fully. For now, we must survive. And then, we will thrive. We will make a place for ourselves in this world."_ Sir Castred looked at each of the crusaders in turn, before continuing in a confident voice, first looking at one of the few surviving paladins.

"_Arjun, you will be in command of the outpost in this "Hardhome". Pick a dozen men to go with you, and any of Solliden's lot who want to with you. Your first priority will be to survey and fortify the area, and supervise the building of new homes for our people. The secondary priority is to keep watch on the locals, and make sure they aren't up to anything."_

_"We will be sending scouting parties out to search the area. We need to know the lay of the land, where are the water sources, how do we feed ourselves, are there any resources to be taken. Are there any enemies..."_ he desperately hoped that this place would turn out to be the safe haven they had wished for.

"_For the initiates, nothing will change. Just because we are in a new world doesn't mean you get a day off of training."_ Sir Castred smiled as the young initiates groaned, "_Hunters, you will be busy feeding the lot of us, and collecting furs so we can stop begging one of the mages for a warming spell."_

_"For everyone else, it will be business as usual." _a few of the men had _that_ look on their faces_,_ so the grey-haired old warrior sighed and added "_Any questions?"_

* * *

Sulien Garthar wasn't sure if he really agreed with the decision of Sir Castred in allying with the savages, but he respected it. The man had lead the surviving Crusaders for years, through thick and thin he had been there for them, when the Monastery fell it had been his leadership that had held them together, and when time and again the enemy had attempted to squash them it was Sir Castred who lead the defence.

Now, in a new world, he was willing to put his trust in the old Lordaeronian.

What he wasn't willing to do was just sit around and wait to see if the man was right to trust the locals, or if they would all come down in the night and slaughter the crusaders. Sulien wasn't Lordaeronian, and he wasn't particularly pious. He didn't see the Paladin's word as law. He was from Kul'Tiras, more specifically a little village in Tiragarde Sound called Hatherford.

He had grown up as the son of a fisherman, and went to sea as soon as he could walk. All of his life Sulien had been a restless sort, so as soon as the Pallisade gates were opened, off he went, taking his pack with him and waving at old Aral on the walls.

Sulien was lightly equipped, wearing mainly thin cloths and leathers that would do little to protect him from attack, but kept him warm enough and allowed him to move quickly and quietly, which was something he had often needed in his time.

A sailing life was a natural pathway to a roguish demeanor, and he had long ago decided that one day he would be a very wealthy man. The end of the world had halted his plans for a few years, but he had plenty of time left in his life, and apparently a brand new world to make his fortune in.

Once when sailing through Booty Bay as a younger man, Sulien had made the acquaintance of a goblin who introduced him to one of the easiest ways to make a fortune; fishing was a fine job, but it wouldn't make him rich. Digging could. A man could get rich from digging gold, iron, silver, mithril, diamonds, so many other minerals and metals, as well as historic artifacts that would find a buyer in some old aristocrat.

So, buying a pick and a shovel, from that point forward he had made sure to go surveying every time his ship made landfall. He had good memories of finding his first diamond in the badlands outside Menethil Harbour.

The ship he had been serving on had survived the chaos of the fall of Lordaeron and ended up taking shelter with the nascent Crusade in their enclave, though he had lost all of the riches that he had saved. They were probably still there sitting in his bank vault in Boralus, if Boralus still existed.

The next few years had been mainly uneventful and similar to life before the Scourge, transporting goods and troops for the Crusade, fishing to sell to the markets of New Avalon and Havenshire, and sometimes fighting against Murlocs or horde pirates. None of the Scarlet service had paid well, but it had paid, and that was good by Sulien's opinion.

It was only after the Lich King destroyed the enclave that things got really bad. All the money he had saved from working for the Crusade had been stored in the house he bought in New Avalon, for Light's sake!

The desperate journey to Northrend and attempt to bring a final end to their enemy had not gone well. Not only local wildlife, factions and weather, but also the Scourge, the Alliance and the Horde, as well as heresy and corruption from their leaders, had all combined to bring about near total destruction to the Scarlet Onslaught.

All of that cobalt, saronite and titanium he had taken the time to mine lost! Left in his chest in New Hearthglen!

Thanks to Sulien's healthy self-preservation instincts, he had managed to rally enough surviving Crusaders to man the ship he had come North on and escaped back to the Eastern Kingdoms, eventually reaching the Whispering Shore near the Pallisade.

There hadn't been any opportunity to make any money since arriving at the Pallisade. None of the Crusaders there had any to spare, and there was nothing they could use it on anyway. But now, now they were in a new place away from their enemies.

Swinging his pick with a whistle, Sulien took in the area he had found himself in. A snowy field surrounded by forests. The scouts had discovered people by traveling in what they thought was North, so he had volunteered to scout to the South and see what treasures the new world held for him to dig up.

A brand new world, full of rivers to pan, rocks to crack open and ground to dig up. He knew he would find something worthwhile, and only hoped there would be someone to pay for it.

* * *

His Grace King Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Dragonblood of Valyria and Protector of the Realm, found himself wanting to strike the man sitting across from him on the only chair in the otherwise opulent room.

After weeks of traveling by foot down the long, dusty roads and through the often lawless wilds of Essos, Viserys and his sister had made their way to the city of Norvos. They had been seeking a patron who would support his reclamation of Westeros for years now, with no luck.

None of these damned easterners would risk their soft cushioned behinds for him, despite the immense wealth and power he would give them in return once the Usurper was gone. So far all of the influential Norvosis that Viserys had met with had spurned him in the same manner as the Braavosis and Lorathis, with laughter and mockery.

One powerful man in the city supposedly ran a huge business empire trading with Westeros. If Viserys was able to, he would have the man flogged for dealing with the Usurper, but unfortunately he needed allies, he needed an army and a navy, and he needed gold.

And yet he had none of those things.

The fat, swarthy, bearded Norvosi in his soft purple silks and expensive jewelry had a smug look on his face as he repeated his words.

"_I am not a charitable man, beggar-boy. If you want an army, I want something in return, and it has to be in advance."_ the ugly foreigner, didn't he know that Viserys was a King? As soon as he took back his throne he would pay back all of his debts in full. "_And I know you have nothing I want, except..."_

The wealthy merchant turned his dark eyes to Viserys' young sister, who stood beside the King. His urge to wake the dragon rose again like a flame, he had been forced to sell his mother's crown years ago after Ser Willem's death, he had been forced to sell his dignity by begging for help from these strangers...

They were forced to rely on the generosity of the Essosi savages for even maintaining basic living conditions. It wounded Viserys greatly, as he still vaguely remembered the good times at home across the Narrow Sea, but little Dany had been too young when they were forced to flee for their lives, and this nomadic beggar lifestyle was all she knew.

Viserys would never sell his sister out to this jumped up peasant, not for a million Unsullied and the head of Robert Baratheon himself. The blood of the dragon was far too precious, and he loved his sister too much to let her be the slave of some old lecher.

Viserys knew that he wasn't always the best brother, especially when he gave in to the dragoonblood, but they were the last Targaryens, and he would honour the vow he made to his mother to protect Daenerys.

Rather than give in to his urges, as he more often found himself doing lately, and attacking the fat man in front of him, Viserys simply grabbed his sister by the arm, turned around and walked from the room as the merchant began to laugh loudly and mock him.

Daenerys looked up at him worriedly as they hurried out of the well decorated manse, passing several of the merchant's retainers and servants, who all gave them amused looks. The mercenary guards opened the doors open for the pair of pale skinned and haired Valyrians, and they found themselves back in the dust and sun once again.

Many of the damned Essosis had by now heard of the "Beggar King", as they called him, or the "Wingless Dragon", and wherever the Targaryen's wandered they met with the same reactions of scorn and mockery.

It was only a matter of time before word reached the Usurper that he and his sister still lived, if that hadn't already happened. For all they knew there were agents already searching for the pair.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

Joining the throng of unwashed, dark-skinned Easterners in the streets, he held his sister close as they weaved in and out of the crowds, heading towards the run down shack of an inn they were staying at. There were a few more potential patrons available to the Targaryen King in this city, but if none of them wen't any better than the last, he and his sister would find themselves on the road once again, probably to Pentos.

It was only a matter of time, Viserys had to remind himself. One day they would find their patron, and Westeros would once again suffer a dragon king's conquest.

* * *

**Prince of Petersburg:** There will definitely be trouble.

**Ominous Olethros:** Yarran (or rather his remnants) probably ends up stitched onto an abomination at some point. I don't think there will be any other POVs in the Warcraft universe, at least not any time soon.

**Blinded in a bolthole: **Light magic will be as effective in this world as in Warcraft, at least when facing the same sort of enemies. No spoils re it's effect on the Others though.

**ZFighter18**, **HadrianCaeser, Osterreicher97:** Thanks a lot for the reviews!


	5. Chapter 5

Gunter Hiragh grinned at the mages as they melted and evaporated the thin layer of snow that covered the grass. Today they would be planting another small garden on the ridge above the village of Hardhome, with the remaining spare seeds and plants that had been stored at the Pallisade.

The rocky beach below was unsuitable for growing anything, so a handful of the farmers had built a little farmhouse by the path to the Pallisade, and after clearing the snow, they had found the ground to be not entirely unfertile.

Any of the fruits or grains they had planted died after a day or two, but some of the crops; the carrots, potatoes and turnips, seemed to be thriving. A couple of the "Yeolings", as the clan of savages called themselves, were surprised to find that the Crusaders grew their own sustenance, rather than surviving from hunting, fishing and gathering natural foodstuffs.

But they all seemed eager to have a new, relatively easy source of food, and a couple of the wildling women were watching the farmers as they worked.

Thanking Meryn and the other mages again after they finished clearing the ground, Gunter and the other farmers set about boxing in a small section that would be planted. The locals had told them that snow fell quite often in this area, though they had been lucky since the Crusaders arrived, and some protective measures would need to be taken to ensure the crops survived if weather got bad.

If what they were about to plant survived, they would eat well and hopefully be able to expand the farm. Maybe one day Hardhome's farms would be as fertile as Solliden's had been before the Scourge.

* * *

Jarki, son of Jorr, proud hunter of the Yeoling clan, didn't know what to make of things. In the last few weeks since the arrival of the outlanders, things had changed for his clan. The newcomers had offered an alliance, and though the inhabitants of Hardhome had been wary at first, the strangers had quickly shown their worth.

They were strangers indeed, none of them were used to the coldness of the north, none of them were wearing proper clothing, they looked more like red Crows, and if it weren't for their wizards with wonderful warming spells the newcomers would have probably frozen their bits off by now.

He and the others had been unsure about the "_Crusaders_" at first, and there was still some grumbling, but their magics had been more than enough to convince the tribe that it would be a better idea to be on their side than against them. Some of the warrior Crusaders, and most of their hunters and farmers, had come to settle in the wildling village and begun to build new homes amongst the old ruins.

Some of the Crusader men had begun to fish with Valmar and Fuldir, and a few of them were planning to build a boat, others had taken to going hunting with Jarki, and though their methods were strange they had been able to bring a lot of food and furs into the village. They were eating well now.

Other Crusaders had been occupied in building a large stone wall a few hundred yards from the village, one of them had said it was for defensive purposes. Their work was only just beginning, but the craftsmanship was very impressive. It seemed every one of these outlanders was a professional in at least one occupation, and many in two.

A number of them had been going on expeditions into the forest and along the beach in search of useful resources, mainly metals to use in their construction. It had been a bit of a culture shock for the wildlings to see how common metal was among the Crusaders, not one of them use weapons tipped with bone, wood, or stone, like their clan used. Many of the Crusaders even wore metal armour that looked like it would provide a lot more protection than the basic furs or hides that they wore.

The Crusader's castle, or "_The Pallisade_" as they called it, had become a sort of outpost. Most of the warriors were still there, training and patrolling, and Jarki and the wildlings had taken to stopping there during their hunts to drop off some supplies or stay the night away in safety.

But that wasn't why he was visiting the Pallisade today. Today Jarki and some other members of the clan were visiting their new allies at the invitation of their leader. The Chief Eiruk hadn't told the other tribesmen what the reason was, but he seemed excited, and so here they were.

Along with Eiruk and Jarki were the fishermen Valmar and Fuldir, Eiruk's wife Torun, her sister and Fuldir's wife Tora, Imund the clan's prized brewer, Alvur the medicine man and the hunters Detmar, Askar, Karstan and Jolf. Their chief was at the head of the group, with the couple of Crusaders that were accompanying them with a report on how the fortifications were coming along.

It wasn't too long a journey to get to the Pallisade. The original path used to reach the shore had not been the most efficient, and a quicker route had been cut almost immediately to make travel through the forest more easy. It was a thin path just wide enough for two or three men to walk side by side, and the ground was uneven dirt and roots, but it meant they could go from one place to the other in only about an hour.

When they got out of the woods and into the clearing that the Pallisade had appeared in, it was possible to see the changes that had been taking place. Much of the snow had been cleared from the immediate vicinity, and a few shacks had been constructed around the outsides of the walls.

Twenty or so "_Initiates_" could be seen training with their chosen weapons, attacking wooden constructions in the shapes of men, while older and more experienced warriors watched over and shouted instructions.

Warfare was clearly an important part of these people's culture, as even the farmers that had come to the village all wore knives, and many had longer forked weapons in their possession as well.

The "_Initiates_" were apparently mainly the sons and daughters of the farmers, and looked to be on the cusp of adulthood. Jarki waved at the man that was teaching a handful, mainly girls, in the use of the bow. Uric Pirrot had accompanied him on a few hunts in the last three weeks, and the man was talented, if rather strange, like all of the newcomers.

The man from Stromgarde nodded back before snapping something at one of the youths. Further along a few men could be seen hammering away as they repaired part of the wall, and a handful of watchers looked off the wall in every direction. So far they had yet to spot any threats, but in the wild lands of the north, something could come along at any time.

The group were wave along into the Pallisade, and one of the Crusaders wearing lighter mail armour came over and joined them. "_Is this everyone?"_, Eiruk nodded and the man continued, introducing himself as Saryl Waud and telling the wildlings to follow after him.

The group made their way over to one of the buildings within the Pallisade, and a guard stepped aside to let them in. It was dark in the rather small room, but a torch on one of the walls lit it up well enough for them to see the rows of racked up weapons. Swords, spears, axes and hammers were stacked together, along with bows and the strange metal weapons they called guns.

Chainmail hung on a set of hooks on the wall, and plate armour was set upon wooden dummies. A pile of helmets were piled on top of each other in a crate in one corner, and a couple of barrels and boxes of balls sat next to it. A handful of strange conical shapes with bits of string running out of the back were atop the barrel, and a handful of large circular shields emblazoned with a red flame leaned against one of the racks.

Jarki took all of this in with surprise, "_What is this room?"_ he asked, and another of his kinsmen grunted, but Chief Eiruk smiled like a boy after his first successful hunt and explained.

"_This is the "Armoury", where they keep their spare weapons..." _Eiruk looked to the Crusader, who nodded in agreement, "_I know you've seen the weapons and armour all the Crusaders wear, all a lot better than our own. The chief of the Crusaders, Ser Castred, thinks we need better weaponry if we are going to be useful allies."_

Jarki raised his eyebrows at that, and saw that Valmar was looking at one of the great metal warhammers. The Crusader took over from Eiruk and continued the explanation "_That's right. The chief here has told us about the less friendly tribes, and how you came to be living here. If any of them come here, we will want every trained warrior we can get to fight them off."_

_"The arsenal is nothing compared to what we had back at the Monastery, but we've got enough to issue all of you with weapons and equipment."_ the man took a step to the side, clearing the way for the wildlings, "_Today you'll be starting your training with the initiates, and you can expect it to be a regular occurrence."_

_"Well, aren't you going to pick something?"_

* * *

Maester Alyn had a headache. He had had the headache for weeks now, ever since Oswyn had earned his place at the Citadel and completed his final trial. The fact that he had completed this trial was what had caused Alyn's headache, because nobody should have been able to complete the thing.

It was supposed to be impossible to light up the Glass Candles. Magic was supposed to be gone, and the legacy of the Old Valyrians was meant to lay dormant. It had been so long since any of the Maesters had even considered that the glasses would ever light up, that none of them had any idea what to do when it finally happened.

The Conclave had been convened, and all the archmaesters and senior maesters at the Citadel had spent all of their time in a vicious argument about what exactly they should do with their new information.

One faction, lead by Archmaester Marwyn and Gormon Tyrell, insisted that they should immediately inform the King, and all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, even the Free Cities and Essos. It was their duty to inform the world that magic had returned immediately.

Another faction, including Archmaester Perestan, thought they should wait until they had discovered the cause of whatever had change in the world. They should send an expedition out at once to find proof of this magic, bring it back to the Citadel, inspect it carefully, and then make a more detailed report to the lords of Westeros.

A final, smaller group declared that this knowledge would only cause chaos, and they should keep it to themselves. The Baratheon kingdom was young, and Robert was not exactly an able leader. He drunk himself to a stupor and mostly spent his days whoring or fighting, ignoring his royal and familial duties.

Alyn had been sitting in on many of the debates, along with the young Maester Oswyn, as the two of them had been the first to see the lit candles. He had thought that their trouble was finally coming to an end that morning as the groups came to a decision, Perestan's suggestion had been approved, and Maesters would be sent to find the source of the world's new magics.

And then the Conclave had appointed Alyn to lead one of the groups, and his headache had come back. He hadn't left the Citadel in years, and now here he was organising the party that would go to the North. Alyn had to quash the slight envy he had of Archmaester Agrivane's luck in getting sent to the Stormlands, Alyn would love to see his homeland again one day.

Oswyn had agreed to come with him, and he had chosen two promising Novices named Karl and Wylmar to accompany them, mainly to do the heavy work and carry the group's supplies.

The two Novices hadn't been told what the objection of their mission was, other than that it was a research expedition. Until they had discovered the source of the magic, they would keep the lit Candles a secret known only to the Maesters and Archmaesters of the Citadel.

They would be leaving shortly, first to Highgarden and then up through the Westerlands and into the Riverlands, before finally across the Twins and through the Neck, into the North.

When they arrived in the North, they would search the whole of the vast land for any trace of anything magical. Hopefully they wouldn't just be chasing snarks.

* * *

Sulien Garthar had no idea how far he had gone from the Pallisade in the past few weeks, his journeying had been far too eventful to keep track of something like that. He had volunteered to be one of the scouts looking for useful resources, mainly iron or other ores, and Light he had been successful so far.

After only a few days of trekking through the lightly snow-covered woods, he had come to a small but swiftly-flowing stream. The stones were dark and black, just like could be found in some regions of the Alterac Mountains, and he had been about to find a larger rock to use as a stepping-stone when something caught his eye.

A slight glint of _something_ in the dirt. He stopped and knelt down, fishing a small iron scoop out of his equipment. Where was that thing? Ah! There, just a bit to the left of him, mainly obscured by the rocks and sediment.

Sulien stretched down and scooped up a pile of dirt from the stream, and brought it up to his pan. A second later he knew that he had it, a tiny clump of unsmelted gold smaller than even his smallest fingernail.

Carefully taking the gold and dropping it into his lucky red pouch, he knew that where there was one nugget, there were more and larger and more valuable. For the next few days, Sulien had panned the river and found a few dozen tiny pieces of gold, but none of his attempts at digging had produced anything, so it became obvious that these were all drifting downstream from somewhere.

Setting off in the direction the gold must be coming from, he momentarily wondered how the other scouts were doing. Small animals were numerous and it was no chore to feed himself, so Sulien had spent as much time as he could adding to his small hoard. The gold would likely be useless at the Pallisade, but the savages had mentioned kingdoms to the south where he would surely be able to put it to good use.

Wonder if they've got any good ales down south to match the old Tirasian grog, he had thought as he kept on wandering. Soon he would find the source of the gold, he was sure.

* * *

_"Pleeeeease?"_

Silla Crump really, really wanted to help the Crusaders who were guarding their new little village. She never got to do anything fun, it was always "_go play with the other children_" or "_listen to Torven_", the old boring priest who tried to teach them things that nobody cared about like maths, but she didn't want to do any of that!

She was twelve, not just a little kid!

The leader of the small group of Crusaders that she was begging sighed and rolled his eyes, "_Fine. As long as you promise to be quiet and stay out of our way, do you think you can you do that?_"

Of course she could! Silla pretended to zip up her mouth and the man nodded before giving the handful of other Crusaders their orders, they would split up into pairs and patrol the area. One of the groups was going to be walking around the handful of shacks that the farmers and crusaders were staying in, next to the homes of their new friends.

Silla was a bit scared of the new people at first, but they were nice to her and one of them gave her a pretty seashell so now she liked them. But she didn't want to spend all day walking around the village, that would be boring, she could do that without playing with the warriors!

Another one of the groups was going to make sure the path up the hills and to the fort was clear, that could be fun, but the forest was kind of scary too. She was happy they didn't have to stay in the Pallisade anymore, or in the dark little rotten farmhouse she had stayed in with Lila Thurlight and her family.

The new houses were a bit cold and messy, with a lot of people staying in them, but more were being built so soon everyone would have their own one, and then people could make them more comfortable.

The last group was going to be patrolling the beach, looking at all the other old ruins and making sure there was nothing out there coming to get them. That one sounded the most fun, Silla liked the beach, she remembered going to the shore once when she was very little with her family. They were dead now.

The two Crusaders she was following were a tall blond man and a shorter dark haired lady, she grinned at the two of them and picked up a big stick to be her weapon on the patrol. The man smiled and patted her on the back, "_Let's go then, little Paladin."_


	6. Chapter 6

Chief Eiruk grunted to himself as he reached the side of the clearing and turned around again, what the bloody hells were they doing this for anyway? Every muscle in the wildling's body was burning, and the only reason he didn't stop running was because his damned cousin, the fisherman Valmar, was ahead of him.

He'd be a Southron's bum-boy before he let Valmar of all people beat him at a race, the man spent more time on the sea than on land! Plus, as the chief of the tribe, he supposed he ought to be a good example to his kin... And it HAD been him that arranged this bloody training, but why in the North did he let that Uric talk him into running in these heavy foreign mails!

With another grunt, Eiruk forced himself to speed up, though it felt like he was running through water. A few of the young initiate crusaders who had already finished the last stretch of the run were waiting on the other side, cheering at the wildlings and others still going. The Yeoling clansmen were naturally tough and able, but not in the trained and disciplined way that these people were, so the repetitive exercises quickly took a toll.

Luckily, the gods were with him today, and Valmar slipped on a small rock about half way back to the other side, tumbling to the grass with a thud and knocking another fellow over in the process. Sparing a second to check if the pair were alright, Eiruk laughed loudly and sprinted past them.

Many of the clan's men and women had been training with the foreigners' fancy metal-topped weapons for the last few weeks, which was far more fun than this run back and forwards stuff. But Eiruk had to admit, he could feel the exercise working. If they kept this up, the clan could be powerful warriors!

Eiruk finally had people to practice sword-fighting with, although his ancestral chiefly sword had turned out to be of somewhat less impressive make than most of the Crusaders' ow blades.

It had been an odd week, and that was saying something considering the state of most of his recent weeks. These red-clothed Lordaeronians sure made for interesting times.

First the otherworldly buggers had started digging little holes everywhere looking for gold. Gold! None of the Yeolings had even seen gold, though Eiruk knew that it was supposedly beautiful and valuable, certainly not the sort of thing that would just be sitting in the ground!

And yet they had found it! That sneaky one, Sulien, had strolled back from the woods after a few days with a small bag of the prettiest, shiny sun-yellow dust that Eiruk had ever seen. According to the Crusaders, it was gold! They'd set up some sort of metal fire-pit to melt the dust in, and now the not-kneelers were thinking of turning it into coins, to create some sort of currency they could use for trade and payments.

It was an odd concept, but once the clan's fishermen and their new friends from the Crusade had finished building the big new boat (to be called "Whitemane"), they were planning to send a small party to explore the nearby coasts and see if there were any obvious resources they could make use of.

Ser Castred even wanted to eventually visit the kneeler lands beyond the wall!

The other odd thing this last week was that the Crusader shaman, an older man named Torven, who called himself a "Priest", had moved from the Pallisade into the new Lordaeronian section of Hardhome. A few curious members of Eiruk's clan had went along to see the priest talk, and Jarki had even decided to follow the "Light", whatever that was supposed to be!

It was a worrying trend, but Eiruk couldn't deny the obvious power of the priest and the other outlanders. Despite all the blessings that the gods had shown him over the years, they'd never made themselves so visible or accessible as this Light seemed to be.

* * *

Garant Haige was NOT sulking. He was a thirty-two year old man for Light's sake. He hadn't sulked since he was a little boy back on his family's farm in Mordis... He was just a bit... annoyed, at present.

The rest of the Crusaders had all taken to these "Free Folk" so quickly. Perhaps they were just excited to see other living humans after so long, but Garant couldn't help but find it foolish. Not only were these strangers, they were heathens and savages too! They couldn't be trusted, especially not with the Crusade's own weaponry!

Sir Castred and the other leaders had insisted on trusting the pagans, and it seemed like even though the priests were disturbed by the situation, only Garant was willing to say anything!

So he had spoken his mind, telling Sir Castred that he would under no circumstances live or work with the pagans. And that was exactly why he found himself in this situation. Thinking that a bit of exposure would change Garant's mind, the old knight had ordered him to accompany a group of scouts on their next journey into the forests.

Now he was stuck trudging through the muck with an unsympathetic bastard of a Lordaeronian, the pickpocket Tiber Afallac, as well as a pair of savages from the tribe by the shore, whose names Garant did not care to remember.

And none of them would even tell him where they were going!

* * *

It had been a good week for Sulien Garthar. The best in a very long while, not only had be found a stream rich in gold dust, but several veins of the valuable metal visible from the surface, all he had to do was brush the snow off of the rocks! This area was absolutely untapped, virgin land; the Crusaders could make a killing here, if only they had someone to trade with.

For now, "_trading_" in it's true sense was off the table, but he had been allowed to keep a good amount of the first find, and had given some to their savage allies in exchange for a nice hut on the beach. If he squinted hard enough, staring out at the shore, he could even trick almost himself into believing he was back home in Kul'Tiras, albeit in a particularly cold winter and in unusually primitive accommodations.

At one end of the bay, a handful of the locals were stood on a rocky embankment, teaching several of Solliden's farmers to fish with nets and spears. At the other end, a few small coracles bobbing around in the water showed the current extent of the Crusade Navy. And in the centre, near the village, more than a dozen men and women were busy working away at building a true ship, under the direction of a Crusader who had helped build the ships that took the Onslaught to Northrend, before the Enclave had fallen.

It was still barebones, just the structure; but they had more than enough material in the wood of the nearby forests and iron nails made out of melted down weapons from the Crusade armoury, the only challenge would be getting enough cloth or similar material for the sails. If nothing could be turned up soon for a full set of sails, they would have to emulate the Vry'kul longships, and rely on a single smaller sail and a host of oarsmen to power the boat.

Apparently, the plans for the ship were to first scout out and map the nearby bays and coves. After that they would head South, to see this wall of ice the savages insisted reached all the way up into the sky, further than any man could even see. They would also sail beyond the wall, in search of the nearest port to seek out a trading partner. Sulien had insisted he be included amongst that first crew; not only was he a Tirasian, a sailor by blood, but he was also a naval veteran. Plus, he needed something to do with the rest of his gold.

* * *

It had been another lonely day for Sam. In the morning he tried to play with Dickon in the courtyard, but all of his brother's friends had teamed up together and hit him with their sticks until he left. AND they called him FAT!

Sam was not fat! He was just a big and strong boy, like mother said. Sam was like the King! King Robert had even came to visit them once, and he was big like Sam too, and everyone saw him and they all knew it, so take that! PLUS Sam knew he was way smarter than any of those dumbies anyway, even if sometimes he did want to be their friend.

At least the Maester always let him read in the library whenever he wanted to, as long as Sam read something educational and not one of those "silly knights and dragons stories", even if those were his favourites, along with the books about magic and wizards and things like that. Though the monsters were a bit scary, so Sam only read those books in the day time.

Sam would read anything he could get his hands on, it was just all so interesting. He liked to read about far away countries and all the funny animals and people that lived there, and all the strange things they did different to how they did it in the Reach. He liked to read about great kings or warriors of the olden days and all the impressive things they did, he liked to read the bestiaries and the books of plants, even the dreariest of chronicles.

And the Maester said he was very good at reading too. There was a new word in the last book Sam read today, which was about different types of rocks, and he had grinned to himself repeating"_obsidian_" in his head, and wondering if he would ever get to see the thing in person.


End file.
